At once their Tudeh leader had called a meeting, all of them astounded at the generals’ cowardice: “It just shows how foul the influence of the Americans who betrayed them and so bewitched them that they’ve castrated themselves and committed suicide, for of course they’ve all got to die whether we do it or that madman Khomeini!”
Everyone filled with resolve, at the same time frightened of the coming battle against the zealots and the mullahs, the opiate of the people, and Pavoud himself was wet with relief when the leader said they were ordered not to take to the streets yet but to stay hidden and wait, wait until the order came for the general uprising. “Comrade Pavoud, it’s vital you keep on the best of terms with the foreign pilots at the air base. We will need them and their helicopters - or will need to inhibit their use to the enemies of the People. Our orders are to lie low and wait, to have patience. When we finally get the order to take to the streets against Khomeini, our comrades to the north will come over the border in legions…”
He saw Ayre watching him. “I’m all right, Captain, just worried by all this, and the… the new era.”
“Just do what Esvandiary asks.” Ayre thought a moment. “I’m going to the tower to let HQ know what’s happened. Are you sure you’re all right?” “Yes, yes, thank you.”
Ayre frowned, then went along the corridor and up the stairs. The astonishing change in Esvandiary who for years had been affable, friendly, with never a glimmer of anti-British had rocked him. For the first time in Iran he felt their future was doomed.
To his surprise the tower room was empty. Since Sunday’s mutiny there had been a permanent guard - Major Changiz had shrugged, blood on his uniform, “I’m sure you’ll understand, ‘national emergency.’ We had many loyal men killed here today and we haven’t found all traitors - yet. Until further orders you will transmit only during daylight hours, then absolute minimum. All flights are canceled until further notice.”
“All right, Major. By the way, where’s our radio op, Massil?” “Ah, yes, the Palestinian. He’s being interrogated.”
“May I ask what for?”
“PLO affiliation and terrorist activities.”
Yesterday he had been informed that Massil had confessed and been shot - without a chance to hear the evidence or question it or to see him. Poor bastard, Ayre thought, closing the tower door now and switching on the equipment. Massil was always loyal to us and grateful for the job, so overqualified - radio engineering degree from Cairo University, top of the class but nowhere to practice and stateless. Bloody hell! We take our passports for granted - what’d it be like to be without one and to be, say, Palestinian? Must be hairy not to know what’s going to happen at every border, with every Immigration man, policeman, bureaucrat, or employer a potential inquisitor.
Thank God in heaven I’m born British and that not even the queen of England can take that away though the bloody Labour Government’s changing our overseas heritage. Well the pox on them for every Aussie, Canuck, Kiwi, Springbok, Kenyan, China hand, and a hundred other Britishers who will soon have to have a bloody visa to go home! “Arseholes,” he muttered. “Don’t they realize those’re sons and daughters of men who made the empire and died for it in many cases?”
He waited for the HF and other radios to warm up. The hum pleased him, red and green lights flickering, and he no longer felt locked off from the world. Hope Angela and young Fredrick are okay. Bloody, having no mail or phones and a dead telex. Well, maybe soon everything will be working again. He reached for the sending switch, hoping that McIver or someone would be listening out. Then he noticed that, by habit, along with the UHF, HF, he had switched on their radar. He leaned over to turn it off. At that moment a small blip appeared on the outer rim - the twenty-mile line - to the northwest, almost obscured among the heavy scatter of the mountains. Startled, he studied it. Experience told him quickly that it was a helicopter. He made sure that he was tuned into all receiving frequencies and when he looked back he saw the blip vanish. He waited. It did not reappear. Either she’s down, shot down, or sneaking under the radar net, he thought. Which?
The seconds ticked by. No change, just the revolving, heavy white line of the sweep, in its wake a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding terrain. Still no sign of the blip.
His fingers snapped on the UHF sending switch, and he brought the mike closer, hesitated, then changed his mind and switched it off. No need to alert the operators in the base tower, if there’re any on duty there, he thought. He frowned at the screen. With a soft, red grease pencil he marked the possible track inbound at eighty knots. Minutes passed. He could have switched to a closer range scan but he did not in case the blip was not inbound but, highly irregularly, sneaking across their area. Now she should be five or six miles out, he thought. He picked up the binoculars and started to scan the sky, north through west to south. His ears heard light footsteps on the last few stairs. His heart quickening, he snapped the radar off. The screen began dying as the door opened. “Captain Ayre?” the airman asked, uniform neat, strong good Persian face, cleanshaven, in his late twenties, a standard U.S. Army carbine in his hands.
“Yes, yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Sergeant Wazari, your new air traffic controller.” The man leaned his carbine against a wall, put out his hand, and Ayre shook it. “Hi, I’m USAAF trained, three years, and a military controller. I even did six months at Van Nuys Airport.” His eyes had taken in all the equipment. “Nice setup.” “Yes, er, yes, thank you.” Ayre fumbled with the binoculars and set them down. “What, er, happens at Van Nuys Airport?”
“It’s a nothing little airstrip in the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles but the third busiest airport in the States and a mother to end all mothers!” Wazari beamed. “The traffic’s amateur, most of the jokers’re learners who still don’t know their ass from a propeller, you’ve maybe twenty in the system at any one time, eight on final, all wanting to make like Richthofen.” He laughed. “Great place to learn traffic controlling but after six months you’re ape.”
Ayre forced a smile, willing himself not to search the sky. “This place’s pretty quiet. Even normally. We’ve, er, we’ve no flights out as you know - you’ve nothing to do here, I’m afraid.”
“Sure. I just wanted to take a quick look as we begin bright and early tomorrow.” He reached into his uniform pocket and took out a list and gave it to Ayre. “You’ve three flights scheduled for the local rigs starting 8:00 A.M., okay?” Without thinking he picked up a rag and wiped the inbound track off the radar screen, tidying the desk alongside. The red grease pencil went into its holder with the others.
Ayre looked back at the list. “Are these authorized by Esvandiary?” “Who’s he?”
Ayre told him.
The sergeant laughed. “Well, Captain, Major Changiz personally ordered these so you can bet your ass they’re confirmed.”
“He’s… he wasn’t arrested with the colonel?”
“Hell, no, Captain. The mullah, Hussain Kowissi, appointed Major Changiz temp base commander, pending confirm from Tehran.” Unerringly his fingers switched channels to the MainBase Frequency. “Hello, MainBase, this’s Wazari at S-G. Do we need tomorrow’s flights countersigned by IranOil’s Esvandiary?”
“Negative,” came back over the loudspeaker, again American-accented. “Everything okay over there?”
“Yep. The outbound went off without incident. I’m with Captain Ayre now.” The sergeant scanned the sky as he talked.
“Good. Captain Ayre, this’s the senior traffic controller. Any flights authorized by Major Changiz are automatically approved by IranOil.” “Can I have that in writing please?”
“Sergeant Wazari’ll have it for you in duplicate at 8:00 A.M., okay?” “Thanks - thank you.”
“Thanks, MainBase,” Wazari said, beginning to sign off, then his eyes fixed. “Hold it, MainBase, we’ve got a bird inbound! Chopper, 270 degrees. …” “Where? Where… I see him! How the hell did he get in under the radar? You switched on?”
“Negative. The sergeant trained the binoculars. “Bell 212, registration… can’t see it - she’s head-on to us.” He clicked on the UHF. “This is Kowiss Military Control! Inbound chopper, what is your registration, where are you bound, and what was your point of departure?”
Silence but for the crackle of static. The same call repeated by MainBase. No reply.
“That sonofabitch’s in dead trouble,” Wazari muttered. Again he trained the binoculars.
Ayre had the second set and his heart was thumping. As the chopper joined the landing pattern, he read the registration: EP-HBX. “Echo Peter Hotel Boston X-ray!” the sergeant said simultaneously. “HBX,” MainBase agreed. Again they tried radio contact. No reply. “He’s in your regular landing pattern. Is he a local? Captain Ayre, is he one of yours?”
